The Bleeding Scar
by FerryBerry
Summary: Through the lens of her father's funeral, a peek into what Quinn's (implied) abusive home life may have been like, with implications of Faberry.


**Disclaimer:** I own nothing. All belongs to _Glee_ writers and creators.

**A/N:** Most of you will probably be upset that this is not an update, but for those who appreciate anything I write, I thought I would post this, a little short story I'd been working on since my creative writing class last year. I obviously changed the names and a few details to apply to Faberry. Hope you enjoy.

**The Bleeding Scar**

When Quinn could no longer ignore the warm heat of the autumn sun attacking her eyelids through the window, she woke, and remembered two things: one, that her father was dead; and two, that his funeral was today. As if the sounds of her sister bawling as she traversed the hallways of their massive old house weren't indication enough, of course.

She stared, long and hard, at the olive green wall of her old bedroom at her teenage-hood house, all the way in Ohio, so far away from her new life, over six hundred miles away. The gold and amber hues coming in faintly through the dusty white curtains made the color look sick, like vomit. The shine gave light to an old, oblong stain on the wall, hastily scrubbed away after its conception. Blood was hard to get out.

Her body gave a jump when in through the bleach white door burst a midget on speed—or at least, that's what her nephew, Alex, appeared to be nine times out of ten. He gave a leap and landed on her in an abrupt, messy heap, drawing a groan from her throat while he bounced on her back and shouted. Loudly.

"Aunt Q, Aunt Q, wake up, wake up, wake up!" He giggled madly.

He was only five. So he had to be forgiven on a day like today, she supposed.

"I am up."

"No, you're not, you're down," he said, and then promptly flopped to lie next to her. His little fingers found the silver cross hanging round her neck, and he asked, "Do you think Grandpa's in heaven?"

Her brow knit. "Uh. What does your mom say?"

Alex twisted the necklace to look at the other side. "Nothing. She just cries a lot."

"Well, what do you think about it?" She rested her head back down on the pillow, and he let go of the cross.

His little face twisted up. "I think yes. Cause even though he was grumpy and he smelled real bad, everybody's sad he died, and why would we have this big party of everybody who's sad if he was bad?"

Quinn almost smiled. "I guess you're right."

"So, he's probably in Heaven," he concluded, and beamed.

She stretched upward and sighed, giving a pat to her nephew's stomach as she pushed herself up against the headboard.

"Okay, kiddo, out you go. I've gotta get ready."

"Oh, I forgot! Grandma said to come downstairs soon because your Jew friend is here!" He beamed and bounced off the bed.

She grimaced. "Jewish."

Alex pouted back at her. "Huh?"

"Jewish, we don't say Jew, and her name is Rachel."

She tossed back the white cotton covers and slid from the mattress, and he leaned his elbows in the warm spot she'd been laying in, kicking his feet where they hung off the bed. She straightened her cross and brushed the dust from the chair at the white oak dressing table across the room, leaning over to unzip her bulky black suitcase and dig in it for her hairbrush.

"Aunt Q?"

"Yes?" She sank down and drew her pale gold hair around her shoulders, brushing delicately at the ends and watching his crinkled face in the spackled mirror.

"Why don't we say Jew?" His big brown eyes went even wider. "Grandma and Mommy say it."

"Well, it's like how we say Native American, or African American. You don't say Indian, do you?"

He shook his head. "No!"

"It can be a little silly, but it's just a matter of being more polite and respectful."

Quinn set down the brush and pulled the suitcase over to her, settling black cloth after black cloth neatly on her lap.

"So do we call them Jewish American?"

She let out a puff of a laugh. "No, that's not necessary."

He beamed and nodded. "Okay!"

Her eyebrow rose while her pink lips twitched. "Now get out of here, you munchkin. Go help your mom."

With a giggle, he bounced up and bolted for the door, and she sighed in the silence, until his little head popped up behind the door again.

"Aunt Q?"

She almost smiled. "Yes?"

Alex gave her a big, toothy grin. "I've missed you."

She smoothed a hand on her knee and she—briefly—showed him her dimples. "I've missed you, too, kiddo."

Quinn heard his feet thundering on the carpet like a too-large rabbit and shook her head. She gathered the clothes on her lap and the makeup case at her feet before creeping across the hallway to the main bathroom. She locked the door behind her and plucked up the toothbrush and toothpaste she had left on the counter the night before. She left the stack of black cloth in her arms carefully in its place and started brushing, watching the fast strokes of blue over her pearly white teeth in the mirror.

Once, when she was about Alex's size, she would stand on a counter much like this, at their old house, or kneel on it. An arm that had seemed the size of a tree trunk at the time would be around her waist, steadying her little body while she played with the silky fabric of a tie. It was all very serious business for her, tying his tie while he shaved scruff off his face and patted his neck with musky cologne. She preferred his natural scent, the smell of roasted almonds and warmth. He would give her a big, approving smile when she finished his tie. Of course it would be totally askew, but he would leave it that way—all through giving her a piggyback ride downstairs, all through the four of them at breakfast together, until he got in his car for work. Mornings were good back then.

Of course, she eventually learned to tie a tie properly. But by then, they weren't spending their mornings together.

Presently, she blinked her long eyelashes at herself in the mirror and hastily picked up her limp wrist, scrubbing her teeth more furiously than ever. Mornings sucked.

XXXXXXXX

By the time Quinn had left the bathroom, the upstairs was officially clear of all company but her own, and the sounds coming from downstairs had her tempted to simply make an exit through the window, if only it weren't nailed shut from the last time she'd made an escape attempt several years ago. Her sister was still crying, sniffling between her unintelligible words. Alex was asking questions about Judaism at a mile a minute. Her mother was delivering orders about getting ready and getting the place clean. Of course a service, after the church and the cemetery, would be here. At least her mother had agreed to a catering company rather than trying to serve up enough food for everyone who would come to give further condolences.

And there would be plenty of them. Despite everything, he had had a lot of friends in the community. It came with the territory of being a lieutenant for the police department. A respectable police officer, loved by many, honored by the governor, and suspected by none. Quinn could only assume the buddy system of his beloved friends on the force had covered up the little known fact of the methamphetamines found in his system after the car crash.

She remembered his first high like it was yesterday.

* * *

He arrived home late, so late Quinn was already in bed, but the slam of the front door woke her, and she raced down the carpeted stairs to the black and white tiled foyer, hopping off the last three steps. When she peered into the living room, there he was, with her mother. She had gone to squeal and hug him—her mother's tension all evening had fed into her own, and not for the first time she wondered whether he would even be home. The sight of him was a true relief.

Until she realized her mother was struggling away from him. He was pawing at her, jittering all over with energy and trying to take off her nightgown while her mother was trying to slow him down and find out what had happened, where he had been all night, why he was acting like this. That last question got her thrown onto the couch.

"DON'T question me, lousy bitch! You're my wife and I'll have you when I want, and I want it NOW, hear me?" Quinn stared. Her mother stared. "What's the matter? You too tired from sleeping with the whole neighborhood while your husband has been out, working his ass off to bring home money so you can keep living like the RICH WHORE YOU ARE?!"

"Daddy…" Quinn whimpered, and hugged herself.

Both of her parents stared at her, and her mother quickly smiled. "It's okay, honey. Go back to bed. Everything's okay."

"Shut up. Kid wants to see her daddy. Come here, sunshine." He lumbered to her at the doorway, and put his clumsy, shaking hand on her head. He crouched down in front of her, and grinned, but not like he usually did, with his square jaw and his kind eyes. His eyes were red and his smile was crooked, like his teeth. He pulled her hair, petting it, and she winced. He scowled. "You are my kid, aren't you? Look at this hair…blonde as the day you were born. Better hope you aren't a klutzy slut like your mother," he muttered. He pulled her hair again and she cried out softly. "Shut up! What's the matter with you?"

Her eyes stung. "It hurts…"

Her mother found a voice and started creeping off the couch. "Russell…Russell, leave her alone, she—"

"SHUT UP! I'm talking to my daughter."

"Daddy, what's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong, sweetheart, Daddy feels better than ever."

His big hand engulfed the top of her head like a hat and he rattled her neck as he mussed her hair. She grimaced again.

"Why are you mad at Mommy?" she whispered.

His scowl returned. "You questioning me?"

She shook her head under his heavy hand. "No, I just don't under—"

"You think I shouldn't be mad at your whore of a mother? Is that right? You taking her side, against me?"

His hand was shaking on top of her head and his voice had gotten low.

"No, Daddy!"

"Russell—"

A thick strip of black, shining metal was in front of Quinn's face before she could blink. It wavered up and down, all around, with the grip of his hand white with force. She was sure the one on top of her head was, too. His fingers were pressing in on her skull and squeezing it. Hot tears streaked down her pale cheeks and her whole body shook.

"RUSSELL!" Her mother's voice was a shriek. "Russell, Russell, please, she didn't mean to, please, just put the gun away, honey, Russell, please, put it away, and we'll go upstairs and you can have me whatever way you want, just _please_ put it away!"

"I told you to SHUT UP!" He glared at Quinn. She squeezed her eyes shut. "Don't you _ever_ question me _again_."

"Yes, Daddy…never again," she whispered, and sniffled.

She heard her mother whimpering, and finally, he patted her roughly on the head.

"Good girl. Go on upstairs now and get to sleep."

The black metal was gone when she opened her eyes and she looked at her mother. Her always dignified, elegant, graceful mother, who was almost sobbing on her knees with her hands clasped together so hard they were shaking. But when Quinn looked at her, she sniffed, and smiled, and nodded.

Quinn tripped three times on her way up the stairs, and scrambled under the bed with the protection of her big brown fluffy lion. It was the same size at her at the time, easy to hug.

In the morning, he had come into her bedroom singing "Sugar Pie Honey Bunch" and drew her out with the gift of chocolate pancakes and kisses on the head, and she tied his tie.

* * *

"Quinn!"

The voice shook her, body and mind, from that day to this one, and Quinn looked up and then over the side of the railing, to find a pair of broad, smiling faces and big brown eyes looking up at her expectantly. Rachel stroked Alex's sandy hair as he hugged the skirt of her black mourning dress, and spoke again, in that sweet, soft tone of hers, "Are you okay?"

Quinn nodded once and resumed her descent down the stairs. "I'm fine."

"Aunt Q, did you know that Jewish people can't eat bacon?" Alex blurted, and grinned proudly.

"I did know that."

"We could never be Jewish, cause we love bacon, right?"

Rachel let out a stifled giggle, covering her red lips with her hand, while Quinn nodded and stopped at the bottom step.

"Right."

"I'm gonna go tell Grandma and Mommy so they can stop worrying!" he yelped, and sped off on his little legs.

"You do that." She shook her head, and almost smiled, as Rachel beamed and then automatically fitted herself under Quinn's chin, her arms resting around her shoulders. Quinn set her hands on Rachel's ribs. She caught a whiff of gardenias from the abundant chocolate hair under her nose, just before she was once again met with big eyes.

"I've missed you." Rachel smiled widely and fixed the lapel of Quinn's cotton cardigan.

Quinn stepped away, wandering to the living room's beige comfort. "Sorry it took me so long to get down here. They didn't hassle you, did they?"

Rachel shook her head with another easy smile and simply trailed after her. "I can handle it. Besides, Alex made sure I was pretty welcome."

Quinn nodded once, and pulled down the black ribbon from her hair. She dug her nails into the knot she'd made. "That's good."

"He's really cute." Rachel watched her another moment. "Where's your sister's husband, anyway?"

She shrugged. "I didn't ask."

She never asked her sister much of anything. They didn't talk much period, not since after her sister moved to college two years after that first incident, and definitely not since she told her not to make up stories the first time Quinn visited her with a bruised rib.

Rachel nodded, almost sheepishly. "Right." She sighed. "I'm sorry I'm smiling so much, it's just. It's been so long since we've seen each other. I miss seeing you all the time, like it was in high school. You're still my kind of friend, you know." She smiled, teasing.

Quinn stared at her, and twisted the knot. "Why are you here? I thought you were still going to NYADA."

Rachel visibly braced herself, and stepped forward. "I am, but I can miss a few classes. Because as much as you hate to admit it, you're not fine."

Quinn opened her mouth to protest, and Rachel matched her, lifting those elegant eyebrows expectantly. Quinn reluctantly backed down with a raised eyebrow and a look down to the knot in her fingers. Rachel's trim nails and caramel hands overtook her own tangled pale fingers as she soothed, "Here, let me."

With a yank, Quinn stepped back and barked, "I've got it; I don't need your help."

Rachel sighed, and settled her hands on her hips. "Well, regardless, you have it."

Her mother's hoarse voice broke the ensuing silence. Her usual glass of scotch was clutched in hand. "Oh. Rachel. You're still here."

Rachel smiled as she turned and clasped her hands. "Yes, Mrs. Fabray. I was just asking Quinn whether she would like me to meet you all at the church or leave with you."

Her back straightened and she tightened her lips. "Oh. You're attending? Are you even _allowed_ to attend a Catholic service?"

Quinn blew out a huff. "She can and she is, Mother. Go ahead and go, I'll see you there." She settled her hand briefly on Rachel's shoulder and nodded in response to her smile and following exit.

Her mother at least waited until Rachel had gone to whisper, "You know, I really wish you hadn't chosen a friend who's going to burn in Hell."

She shook her head and turned on her heel, sipping scotch as she went. Quinn scowled, and tore at the knot.

XXXXXXXX

The service was nothing but a blur of voices. The priest spoke, the chief of police said a few grave words, her mother thanked everyone for coming, and then people came up, one by one, to the casket and then the family. A few hugged the polished cedar case. They were careful not to disturb the bouquet of asphodels and marigolds on top. Her mother received hugs and condolences and tears; her sister received hugs and pats on the shoulder; Alex received hair mussing and questions about if he missed his grandpa and reassurances that he would always be with him.

Quinn could only remember being choked with their hugs and deafened by their apologies and thanking them, one by one. "Thank you, Mr. Anderson. Thank you for being here, Mrs. Anderson. It means a lot to the family, Mr. Smith. Thanks, Joey. Thank you, Annabelle. It's okay, Aunt Claire. Yes, there will be a gathering at our house later, Mrs. Thompson. Thank you, Christine." She could feel Rachel watching her with those big, sympathetic brown eyes the entire time.

Then, finally, everyone was seated again, and her sister stood up, sniffling and whimpering for attention. She told everyone what a wonderful father he was and how close she and Quinn were with him, so she wanted to play the following slideshow dedicated to him. The projector started up. Her sister had chosen "To Sir With Love" for the music. Picture after picture faded in and out, smiles in every one, Quinn and her sister growing older with each one, and her sister cried harder than she had all day.

Quinn wondered how no one else noticed the tightness in each smiling face. Her graduation picture came up; after that, it was all she could take. She left, back out into the chilled November air, without looking back. She took brief refuge in the convenience store across the street, long enough to buy a lighter and a carton of Marlboros, and then leaned up against the brick behemoth of a church with the grey smoke and frying ashes.

She could still see that picture in her mind's eye, his arm stretched across her shoulders and squeezing her up against his chest. The other arm was dedicated to doing the same to her mother, while her sister crowded in behind her to fit in the picture, pointing to the diploma in Quinn's hand. Her face was partly obscured by the tassel of the skewed crimson hat on Quinn's head. She hadn't thrown it. To do so would have meant to reveal the bandage on her forehead. Makeup could cover the extra swell of her cheek and the bump on her lip, but not that.

The night before graduation was the night she first—and last—caught him cheating on her mother. He had slammed the door as always, when he came in, laughing raucously with another tattooed woman. Quinn had been sitting on the couch, attending to a scholarship essay, when he came in, and she was already halfway to the stairs when they noticed her.

The woman giggled. "Who's this? A little young for you, don't you think?"

He gnashed his teeth, and glared at Quinn. "Get upstairs."

Quinn didn't argue, but only a half an hour passed before the door to her bedroom slammed open. He stomped to her, and had his mitt of a hand around her throat before she could blink.

"You're spying on me now, is that what you're doing?"

She choked. "N-no."

"ARE YOU? I know what you are, you're just a slut, a spy, you're in it with your mother, aren't you? You're trying to ruin me!"

She couldn't answer this time.

"Don't you dare tell your mother about this, you hear me? I'll know, you rotten little shit! I should just get rid of you now! Shoulda gotten rid of you when you got yourself knocked up!"

Her ears popped under the pressure of his hand. "I – won't – tell."

"We'll see!"

With one back hand, her lip split open and she hit the wall, and the impact broke the skin on her forehead. He stormed out, and Quinn sat crouched there. She let the blood flow down the wall and she was sure it spoke for itself the next day when, after graduation, she got on a plane to New Haven, Connecticut, for her Yale orientation and didn't come back, that summer, or ever again. Until now.

XXXXXXXX

The gathering at Quinn's house after the service didn't go much better. Most everyone put her disappearance to it being "too much" to handle, but there were still a few looks, particularly from her mother and sister. Quinn managed to avoid being cornered—by them or by Rachel—by making herself busy. She served food to crying and reminiscing guests and cleaned up empty plates and glasses from tables and the occasional chair and occupied the kids with games and stories. Once they all gave up and let her be, she sat in the backyard by the pool, covered for the oncoming winter, and finished the pack of cigarettes.

She put her feet on the cover and wondered if she'd drown if she fell through.

He had been the one to teach her how to swim. He had been patient, and kind. He had saved her from her own wild dog paddling more than once.

He had called her a slut when she wore a bikini for the first time years later.

XXXXXXXX

When it was dark and all noise had abandoned the house, Quinn picked up her high heels and went back inside, sick from no food and all smoke. Her mother was waiting for her in the living room. She stood instantly.

"And just where have you been all afternoon? Oh, God, you reek!" She waved her hand to guard herself from the smell. "Lucy Quinn Fabray! I thought your father told you to quit that horrible habit!"

She pursed her lips. "No, he lit one and put it out on my arm."

Her mother's eyes went wide as golf balls, and all the breath left her chest. "What did you just say about your father, young lady?"

Quinn rolled her eyes to heaven. "I'm not a young lady anymore, Mother. And I just said what no one else has said all day—the truth."

"Your father was a wonderful man, and you do not speak ill of the dead! We raised you better than that, young—"

"Lady, yes, I get it."

Her mother stared at a stranger. "What is the matter with you?"

"What's the matter with _you_? You know, possibly even better than I do, what a _monster_ he was! He did not deserve to be mourned!"

Her mother tightened her lips. "You take that back, young lady."

Quinn shook her head once, slowly. "You know what I really wish? I really wish you hadn't chosen a husband destined to burn in Hell."

Her mother's open palm was more violent than his had ever been.

XXXXXXXX

Rachel set her old yearbook aside on the nightstand next to her rose-colored bed and slid off of the cotton sheets to answer the knock on her bedroom door. She smoothed out her sleep shirt before she pulled open the door, with a smile despite her failures today, "Yes, Daddy—oh. Quinn, what's wrong?"

Tears were already falling down Quinn's puffed, red cheek, but they came in true earnest for the first time Rachel could remember when she welcomed her in with a hug. They sank to the bed, with Quinn curling on her lap, and Rachel stroked her fingers through the abundance of her blonde hair, gently so that her friend wouldn't wince at the motion as she so often did. The tears eventually stopped, but the sniffling and the clinging didn't end for a long time.

Rachel was already fast asleep against the headboard by the time Quinn had fully calmed and said, meaning it for the first time all day, "Thank you."


End file.
